Countryman
by gettinyinggywithit
Summary: A few days in her ramen shop, and Katsura's ideas begin to unravel. — Katsura x Ikumatsu, based on the events of episode 39


**Note: **My attempt at a slow-burn M

**Note 2:** Apologies if this feels sloppy, it hasn't been peer read.

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**Countryman** A few days in her ramen shop, and Katsura's ideas begin to unravel. — Katsura x Ikumatsu, based on the events of episode 39

_._

_._

_What is a patriot?_ she asks one night over sake.

He is sitting down the bar from her in her ramen shop, his body carefully angled toward his food and not toward the steady heat coming off her body. The lights are dim, and alcohol buzzing in his ears. Ikumatsu is tipsy, flushing from her cheeks down to her neck, and he frowns, trying hard to think about anything else but that. Then she sighs, and it hurts, and Katsura sees at once that she is small and tired, in her too-big white uniform and sandals slipping off her toes.

_I have wondered about this many times, since Daigo passed. _

Immediately, his mind goes to the ghost that haunts this ramen shop, the husband-who-should-have-been, a man tall and handsome though Katsura cannot imagine his face. This man who held this small, sad, tired woman in his arms much, much too briefly. If he was here, what would he think of her, drinking liquor with a stranger? Yet she had told him this night, in this room, that her husband is gone, that he is never coming back, and that men like himself were responsible.

Katsura feels his hands involuntarily flexing, his fingers drumming on his thighs with the effort not to flee.

_A patriot is someone who fights for his country,_ he offers valiantly, though he is visibly shaking.

_What is a country? _she asks now. She blinks slowly, slumped heavily over her arms on the bar. _Is it the buildings, the government?_

Another slow, languorous blink. _Is it the stuff: food, clothes, holidays?_ Katsura shifts his eyes toward her, and she is thankfully not looking at him. _Or is a country its people?_

There is a long pause between them as he weighs his answer.

_Sometimes,_ he says slowly, staring hard at his hands fisted against his thighs, _a patriot must protect the people from the government_.

A low chuckle emits from her direction, and he finds his chin snap up toward her. Her lips are puckered as though he had told a bad joke.

_Who decides that the people need protection from their government, eh? Do you think all these rebels truly care for the people of this country?_ Her dark eyes slide toward his now, seeing but not saying: _How many among them are not just vying for power themselves?_

_/_

He has been in her ramen shop for several days, working along her side, dodging tasks that send him out of the shop but always keeping one eye on the door or window. If Ikumatsu notices, she does not comment, for she only smiles serenely and ties her low ponytail a little tighter.

_This is how you make the stock_, she says, as if to no one in particular. Katsura begins to wonder if she speaks aloud like this even when he is not here; is she speaking to Daigo—?

It seemed so easy for her to let him into her space. _Whether it's till the rain stops, or you learn the Way of Ramen, or your injuries heal,_ y_ou can stay here_, she'd said. Ikumatsu had leaned back against the bar with her arms crossed over chest, one ankle elegantly crossed over another. She'd made a point look at his foot, which is sloppily bandaged, but did not elaborate.

If she were not Ikumatsu, he would call her a fool; but she is no fool — she is direct and demanding and hard-working. She wakes him at dawn to start boiling stock while she makes two breakfast bowls with miso. She shows him how to chop vegetables without his hands getting tired, how to assemble the bowl in thirty seconds, how to brown the pork perfectly on both sides. She laughs when the noodles slip from his grasp and spill on the floor: _Haven't you been using chopsticks since you were a baby?_

Her regular customers start to take notice of his presence in the shop. The older women cover their mouths and whisper loudly: _Who is that handsome waiter, Ikumatsu? Have you been keeping him all to yourself?_

She doesn't even bat an eyelash when she whips around with two fresh bowls. _Not at all! He is just here to help._

But the old biddies don't let her get away that easily; they talk around their noisy noodle slurping, plying her with questions. _What is his name? How old is he? How long have you been together?_

Ikumatsu just waves them off over her shoulder good-naturedly, and Katsura allows a smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

Twice a day, she sits him down on the floor upstairs and unwraps his bandages. Her work is much neater than his, despite the the many years of rebellion work he's invested. He comments once, before he can stop himself: _You will make a wonderful mother someday_.

Her hands still for a moment, but just a moment, before she finishes tying his bandages. There is a smile on her lips but a tear rolling around the corner of her eye.

_Thank you_, she says.

At night, he sleeps in the room adjacent to hers. She does not even bother to lock her bedroom door or protect herself in any way. Lying on his mat at night, Katsura can see through the screen into the dim light of her room, and her tall, slim silhouette against the lamp as she disrobes. He can hear the little shuffles of her feet in the dark, the ruffle of the sheets as she pulls them back and settles against the pillow. He hears her slow, steady breathing as he, a man, lies only a few feet away and separated by nothing but his iron will.

He wonders, _does she really trust me that much?_ and does not ask, _does she want me to come in_—?

So Katsura finds himself unprepared, when Ikumatsu places three fingertips on his wrist one night and does not meet his eye. He looks down at her, frowning deeply, but her eyes are trained on the place where her skin meets his, and he starts to say, _Ikumatsu-dono, I can't_—

But she doesn't give him the chance; she pulls away first and goes to her room.

A growing unease settles over Katsura in the following days. She acts no differently toward him; still wakes him early to cook at her side, watches him wipe down the table tops at the end of the day, changes his bandages. She does not mention the press of her fingers to his wrist, the starved look in her eye. He thinks, _I need to leave, she trusts me too much—_

But then she is missing, and just a note that does not make sense is in her place. A delivery? Her bike is still there. He knows instantly what he must do. Katsura must go after her, must go after the rascals who would use his name, the name of rebel and patriot, to take her husband and ruin her life.

After it all, she is still the one with the last laugh.

_I knew the entire time_, she says, legs folded beneath her on the street. The sun is setting, and she looks like a buddha at prayer, both eyes closed, palms open._ I'm like you, I can't not help someone in need._

He is not sure what to think of this strange, generous woman. _How big is a heart?_ he thinks. _Is it bigger than a nation?_

They part with just a thank you between them. Katsura strides out of the scene and tries not to look back. He does not think he has a right to stay in her home, in her heart, after all that he has taken from her. But perhaps he will come again, to pay his respects to Daigo's widow, to the Way of Ramen.

And from time to time he does. Katsura comes in through her window upstairs and surprises her one morning by appearing behind the counter with her, asking quietly: _Is that soba on the menu now?_ She is so startled she drops her ladle and then bashes him on the head with it.

He still occasionally helps out in the shop, wiping down tables and keeping rascals away from her. Her good-for-nothing in-laws have never returned, but other local Kabukicho trash wander in from time to time, only to be served a plate of rancid fried rice and never return. She raises an eyebrow but still does not comment, and she doesn't touch him again.

Elizabeth shows up at the ramen shop too, alongside Gintoki, and it's then that he discovers how truly small and intertwined his world really is. Gintoki offers her a quiet smile that actually reaches his eyes, and watching his old friend like this, Katsura feels something inside tighten to bursting.

And through it all, Ikumatsu is beautiful, there is no question. She still wears her simple white uniform, her low ponytail, but she has a presence, a body language, a quirk to her lips that sets people guessing. Old grampa customers sigh and day dream out loud about her fine eyes, long hair, slender white fingers; little girls ask Iku-dono to teach them to be nice wives too; and young men appear without their girlfriends to slurp noodles from the hand of an angel. A few people still enquire about the nature of their relationship, but she just laughs, full and wholesome.

/

Dams break. One night, he is on his way to her shop when the skies open up and pour, and he can think of nothing to do but to creep into her upstairs window where he first saw her, and seek shelter.

It is late, she has already prepared for bed, and when he lands with a quiet thud on the floor of her room, she is brushing out her hair by the light of her lamp. Katsura staggers. She is too lovely for words, her long blond hair pulled over one shoulder, her body wrapped in a simple pink robe, and her lashes so goddamn long he's not sure how he never noticed. Her room is warm and suddenly too close, when he sees that she does not at all mind the intimacy of the moment.

He starts to step away, apologizing — _Ikumatsu-dono, I'm sorry, I _— but she turns off the lamp and plunges them into darkness.

Katsura's eyes do not adjust before he feels her small warm hand wrap itself around his. He gasps audibly but doesn't remove his hand. Instead, he follows her slowly across the room, lets her peel off the damp outer layer of his clothing, and allows himself to fall down onto the mat by her side.

Katsura's body is as slight and smooth as a woman's, and hers fits alongside his from tip to toe. They press together on their sides tightly, both strung too tight to say anything. His nose presses under her jaw, and her arms come under his to grasp at his shoulders. For many moments, they do not move, just clinging to the novelty of being held by the other. Then Ikumatsu parts her legs and slides one over his hip, and he rolls over her.

She looks blue and silver in the moonlight, her honey-colored hair spread out on the floor. Her lips are slightly parted, waiting, wanting, but before he leans down Katsura wants to just feel her like this, breathing shallowly under his body, the inside of one thigh pressing to the outside of his hip. Ikumatsu reaches up, boldly, and threads her fingers through his hair, and smiles, for the first time that night.

_What kind of grown man has hair like this?_ she teases. She pulls sections of long dark hair down over his shoulder so it pools against her collarbone. The sight sets something inside him alight, and Katsura finally moves forward and kisses Ikumatsu.

She is soft and wanton, opening her lips almost immediately to him, and Katsura feels himself shudder against her. Ikumatsu is a widow, she is no stranger to a man's touch, and there is an insistence in her kiss that melts any swaggering confidence Katsura might have felt. She wraps both arms around his neck and pulls him down, deeper into her mouth, and simultaneously she grinds her hips up against his. He is stunned, and hard, and so wants to please her.

He pulls away from her lips almost forcibly, but latches his mouth onto her cheek, pressing firm, searching kisses all over, to her earlobe, down her neck; and when she makes a small squeak of pleasure, Katsura groans against her collarbone.

_Ah_, she says now. _I like how you sound._

Her words spur him on like a man panting after a prize, and he teeths at her shoulder, nosing the collar of her robe further and further down her body.

_Ikumatsu-dono_, he starts, but she interrupts him: _Don't call me -dono in my bed, Katsura_.

He meets her eyes, wide and fierce and _hungry_ even in the dark. He wonders if his eyes look the same.

_Tell me what you want_, he says, his lips vibrating against her skin.

Immediately, he feels her flush, excited; it restores a bit of his confidence even in the face of this woman who clearly knows exactly what she wants. It thrills him to think she can say the words, and he will deliver.

She sits up a little on her elbows and tilts her face at him. _Take off your clothes._

He blinks. _You don't want me to—?_

She blinks slowly, her lips tipping up. Have they always been so full and sensual, or was it their kiss? _All in good time_, she reassures.

Katsura obeys; he moves away from her, stands, and begins to untie the belt around his waist. She lies back against the floor, looking up and watching him with an unreadable look in her eyes, though that full, suggestive smile is still on her lips.

Once he has stripped himself completely bare, he settles down on his knees before her, holding her gaze with his own, palms up as if to say: _Take me as you will_.

Ikumatsu sits up now, and her robe is gaping wide open, so wide that if he dared to tear his eyes away from hers, he could see full buttery breasts and pink nipples, but he is too cautious for that, so he waits for her to come closer — and she does, crossing the space between them almost instantly, her lips on his, one hand in his hair and the other slipping down his shoulder and across his chest. He follows her lead and wraps both arms around her back, pulling her chest to chest with him, and when she yanks his hair a little and he yelps into her mouth, she laughs out loud and shrugs clean out of her robe.

She is too close for him to adequately survey her, so he pulls away a little, places one hand on her chest above her sternum, and slides his fingers slowly all the way down the length of her body, watching himself as he does. Ikumatsu breathes shallowly under his palm, and he thinks that he likes the way her breath stops entirely when his hand reaches her lower stomach and fans his fingers out.

He meets her eyes again. _Tell me what you want._

She pulls him atop her on the mat and says, _I want you to touch me. _

Katsura parts her legs with his knee in between and slides his hands lower still. His fingers graze so, so lightly, the wet outer skin of her sex, and she sighs. He asks, _Like this?_

She turns her head on her side and nods, eyes looking up at him a little cheekily. _More. Inside._

Cautiously, Katsura slips his fingers in — she is feverish, wet, so much softer than he could've imagined — and Ikumatsu sighs again, a sound that makes his lower belly coil. He starts to move his fingers experimentally, listening to the hums of her lips, the little choked noises when he touches _that one spot_, the obscene slick sound of his fingers moving in and out of her.

By now he is so hard it's almost painful, but he is so mesmerized by the sight of her body rippling, turning, thrusting according to the rhythm of his fingers that he can't bring himself to stop. A fine sheen of sweat begins to form on Ikumatsu's body, so thick and shiny that he can see it in the moonlight. She wraps one arm around his neck again and pulls his lips toward her own, and he intensifies the pace of his hand on her sex. She starts to buck, hard, against his hand, and she fists one hand in his hair.

_Katsura—_ she cries, _stop._

Immediately, his hand stills. His blood runs cold. _Have I hurt you?_ He begs, terrified, already moving away. But she doesn't let him, only pulls him closer.

She pries one eye open and peers at him, that soft, delicious grin on her lips again. _No, I'm sorry._ _I just—_ she reaches down now for his cock, wraps her fingers around him. He hisses in surprise— and pleasure. She giggles, a girlish sound he's never heard her make before: he loves it instantly. _I want you now._

Heat threads through his body, every nerve growing tense as she works her hand up and down his length. He gives a little grunt, and she giggles again, so he grunts again, and she says, _I hope you'll make more of those._

Ikumatsu sits up now, and with one hand on his shoulder, pushes him gently to the floor so that his back is against the mat. Katsura had not expected this either, but he watches her rise up above his body, glistening, pale, slick in the moonlight, and place one firm thigh on each side of his hips. She looks so strong, so powerful, he wonders if this is what goddesses look like when they take their lovers.

She cocks her head to one side, smiling. _Is this okay?_

He can only nod vehemently, and she giggles again, a third time.

When she pulls herself down over him, Katsura immediately arches his back into her, both hands coming to grab at the meat of her hips. A deep, guttural sound escapes past his lips, and a similar one from hers. She places both hands flat across his stomach to steady herself, and then she rocks. Katsura bends his knees to give him more control in thrusting up to meet her, but Ikumatsu sets the pace, moving up and down, or back and forward, steady and languid and swaying like a flower in the breeze. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth, head going back so that he can see the long line of her elegant neck as she rocks and works him faster and faster. He grips her hips hard, and if it's hard enough to hurt, she does not say, as broken bits of language spill out — _Yes, ah, more_ —

The only sounds in the room are her sweet, high wails, his low, feral groans, and the sound of their sexes smacking together at faster and faster speeds. Soon they are getting sloppy, hammering so hard against each other that Ikumatsu is nearly weeping with the tension. He sees his opportunity, says, _Can— can I—_ and she interrupts him, _Yes, yes please let me—_

And Katsura flips her over on her back and pounds away as fast, as hard, as he can manage, one hand gripping her knee up over his shoulder, the other on her hip, holding her firmly in place. She is pliant and splendid, and he is a tight spear of energy moving against her, trying to wring out every glorious sound that her mouth can make. _Yes, Yes, Ikumatsu, yes—_ he spurs her on, and she responds: _Ah, Katsura, oh, yes please—_

Finally, and too soon: her body seizes up and clamps around him, tears squeeze from the corner of her eyes, and a wave passes through the entire length of her. He rides her through it, and nary a moment later, he falls too. He collapses on top of her, both of them sweating, panting, still too-warm in the small room. The rain outside has stopped.

.

.

_fin._

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**Note:** Thank you.


End file.
